Of all the constants in this world, writing is not one.
And of all the uncertainties, that is one.
How do I know? Somedays I can write good streams of c, and others, I stare at a blank screen for half the day till I finally come out with something mediocre. Today’s one of those days.
It’s like that when ever I try to write something, too. If you catch me on a good day, my writing’s half decent. On a bad day, well, let’s not go there.
Of course, I’m not the family author. That’s Cait. But I want to write. And one day I will. But if everything has a season, I don’t think my writing season’s come upon me, just yet. I think it’s a season for ideas.
So therefore, I don’t really mind about uncertain writing. Yet. It just gets to be a pain. Sigh.
I wonder, will I ever write books? Will they be any good? Are my ideas interesting? Cause I like them. Still, I’m me, and that’s enough reason to be concerned.
Is it just me, or does it feel like everyone writes these days? Well, maybe not everyone. Everyone who blogs, anyway. I wonder if this lowers a persons chance of getting published…
But hey? Who cares? I’m going to write despite the spitters and spatters of inspiriatio, and hope I can attempt better things than streams of c one day.